006—Rest

Light and shadow balance at Naples Beach, Florida, May 2023.

Hello and happy June! I still cannot believe we are half-way through 2023. I’m sorry this post is a few days late—I am only human :( and some personal things came up and I’m trying my best figuring this all out—but I’m happy to announce that Light Balance now has audio! So you can listen to this post on the go :)

Often when I hear the word ‘rest’ I hear the 2008 song Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant in my head. It’s a catchy song but not a very good adage, ha. Sometimes it takes rest and pause to realize things. It can show us when we’re on a spit of land, edging closer and closer to something, though not realizing it’s a cliff until we slip on a stone, or our gaze follows a butterfly and we fall or float right off into a sea of emotion. We thought everything was ok, we held it together, until suddenly we recognize it was very much not ok. What held it all together was an old, frayed bungee cord around our thoughts, feelings, memories and worries, stretched to its limit. And one more emotion—a fearful heart pause from slipping on a stone or a delightful heart burst from following a butterfly—pushes us right into infinity, into an abyss, our arrival into which we can’t say for certain is unexpected.

Last week over the Memorial Day holiday, I had a nice and much needed restful long weekend. I went to the Gulf Coast with my parents and enjoyed ice cream (Talenti non-dairy double cookie crunch for the absolute win) and tv indulgences, tacos, burgers, green shakes, movie theater-goings, beach hangs, ocean swims, and book and magazine reads. An intentional rest is always easier on the soul than a forced rest.

Some snaps from a restful weekend Memorial Day weekend with my parents on the Florida Gulf Coast.

I’ve been remembering back to something I saw around this time last year, something that (partly) catapulted me to a forced rest. Driving just before noon one day last June, I exited the interstate highway onto a main road in North Miami. A few blocks before my left turn, some traffic piled up and I could see ambulances up ahead. About half a block away, I saw a squat three-story apartment building on my right, the pair of emergency vehicles, a few paramedics, and a dozen or so neighbors and onlookers standing along the sidewalk and entryway. As I approached the building, I had a clear view of what was going on: in the center of the concrete driveway, a woman lay face up, unmoving, her face burned raw and bright red. I gasped and covered my gaping mouth with my hand as I drove slowly past, my breath quickening and heart rate rising. As I looked up and back at the scene through my rearview mirror, in that moment, I saw a paramedic place a white sheet over her body. She died right there and then.

To say I was shook for days after witnessing this would be an understatement. I really tried to remember that there is nothing I could have done for this woman; I just so happened to be driving by. Still, I imagined a whole life story for her. That she was likely cooking some lunch for herself in her apartment when things went horribly wrong. That she had piles of books and papers and mismatched furniture and picture frames and other trinkets that made her humble apartment, a home. That she had a little white poodle who sensed something tragic had happened and now was lost and scared. I imagined her family trying to call her, and no answer, not realizing the worst had happened. I invented this whole thing and was going down a whirling hole of sadness for this woman whose life I created and would never truly know. I really felt for her. It took strength to remember, however, that that was her story, with that violent death, not mine. I blessed her journey and prayed for her and her loved ones.

At that time, I still worked my 9-5 government consulting job, took writing and photography classes, and was building up my portfolio and clientele for each. I slept little. I drank way too much coffee. And I felt this impulse to do everything all at once, to try and launch a new chapter in my life rapidly and immediately. Learning new things, trying new things. The desperation was physical. Seeing this woman die a horrible death, I took it as a sign from God, the Universe, to slow down. I was burning myself out and needed to take it easy. Everything in its time. Work hard, yes, but rest. Always rest.

Because rest and half-way points often elicit reflections, here is a poem I wrote last June that combines all these. I submitted this poem and four others to a poetry contest last summer. They rejected it, but I still wanted to memorialize and publish it. There will be more poems that I submit to other publications, but this one feels right to share here now.

*

June is an Island

June is an island,

a speck in the vast ocean of the year.

A fulcrum from which we tip

from the yawns and stretches of spring

into the animated adolescence of summer.

We’ll need that youth to get us through the

assiduous reaping and sowing of autumn, and

into the wise solitude of winter.

June is an island where we can gather

mushrooms and berries for life,

and sunflowers for love,

fortifying us for the next half of the year,

next half of life,

next half of love.

June is an island where we are surrounded by time,

its immensity stretching far past and far future.

Yet I stand alone in the present, from this tiny island

in the sea of infinity.

What’s that?

I feel a rumble. This island, June, appears to be a volcano.

I stand at the in-between above and below.

What terrifying, wondrous new knowledge.

I’m electrified, and awake.

Feeling into the present surprises me.

What will happen?

I’m more curious than afraid.

*

I hope you discover and revel in whatever your island is, taking stock of this hinge point between the calendar year, a relationship, your career, your life, whatever feels like a middle point for you. And I hope, if possible, if feasible, if reasonable, if just maybe conceivable, you will try, too, to be more curious than afraid. Sometimes all it takes is rest.

<3

This week I’ve been:

Reading: Still reading Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway and Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom by Rachel Pollack. I am also trying to catch up with my National Geographic magazines. I kept pace with them before my 2018 road trip, but those six months away from home threw me off. This week I’ve been making my way through the April 2021 issue, whose cover story, The Deadly Cost of Dirty Air by Beth Gardiner and photographs by Matthieu Paley, is a fascinating read. The issue also has an interesting short piece on some perfume history in India: how Kannauj, India, has been crafting aromatic oil-based botanical scents, called attar, for centuries using things like roses and other flowers and herbs grown along the rich soil of the banks of the Ganges river.

Writing: I’ve been reviewing and incorporating really helpful feedback on Julia’s Orchids from my trusted readers. Julia is developing as a character and getting more complex, y’all! <3

This is more of a mix of coordinating and writing: I’ve been gathering and writing information for each of the art pieces at Jackrabbit Studios—including one of my own photographs, A Skinny Boy and His Skinny Horse—for museum-style placards that will hang beside each piece <3

A Skinny Boy and His Skinny Horse, near Viñales, Cuba, March 2017.

The indelible Jen Azlant framing my photograph to hang up at Jackrabbit Studios <3

Photographing/Photo Editing: I haven’t photographed or edited much this week, aside from casual snaps of my daily adventures and things that catch my eye, as shown below :)

Some photos from throughout my week, around Miami.

Watching: The NBA Eastern Conference Finals and now the Finals. YAY Miami Heat! Admittedly, after that wildly awful loss for the Heat in Game 6 of the Eastern Conference Finals against the Boston Celtics, I really did not think they would win in Game 7 in Boston. I just hoped the Heat wouldn’t be so humiliated. And, what do you know, they blew it out of the water and clinched the series, making it to the Finals. As they’re saying in Miami, the Heat are going to “freir los nuggets” (the Heat are going to fry the Nuggets).

I watched the first episode of Bill Nye’s The End is Nye series on Peacock. It shows real-life simulations of worst-case scenario disasters, the first being something called a Hydra storm where five massive hurricanes pummel several continents at once. It was intense. And, at least in that first episode of the series, it made me nostalgic for his ‘90s show Bill Nye: The Science Guy.

I also watched the Ghana episode of Rainn Wilson’s Geography of Bliss series on Peacock, the last episode I needed to finish the season. The episode centered on the widespread optimism of Ghanaians, which was beautiful. And I cried during the heartbreaking scenes of visiting the old slave ports—including the still-standing Door of No Return—Ghana having been a major hub in the transatlantic slave trade to the Americas.

And and and—I saw The Little Mermaid in theaters. I loved it so much! It was so nostalgic yet modernized for 2023 and the 21^st century—updating dialogue and having an incredibly diverse cast. Lin Manuel-Miranda knows his stuff. The film kept the essence of what made the original so good, and just enhanced it. Gorgeous colors and imagery and photography, charming characters and great acting. I teared up at all the songs—Under the Sea, Kiss the Girl—while I saw it by myself, like a true millennial. There were a ton of little girls in the theater singing the songs and wearing mermaid crowns, it was the cutest.

Listening to: I listened to the No More Grind: How to Finally Rest with Tricia Hersey episode of the We Can Do Hard Things with Glennon Doyle podcast on Spotify (I really should consider doing a special section on Jen’s Recs! She’s always so on point with the suggestions, always exactly what I need to hear and feel and experience—thank you Jen, forever and always!). It was so good! I loved a part where guest Tricia Hersey recalls how her grandmother would rest in between her two jobs, with grandkids running around the house, and they would say, ‘Shh! Don’t wake grandma, she’s sleeping!’ And grandma would say, ‘I’m not sleeping I’m listening.’ Listening to God, to restful intuition and knowing. Love that.

My neighbor, with whom I share a wall, started playing his piano during a little emotional breakdown I had this week. It was the first time I heard him play in the six months I’ve been living here, and it’s been beautiful and soothing. He’s been playing ever since and I’m so grateful for these little private concerts <3.

Xo,

Jessica♾️